


Rewrite Error

by SpiderLilly1339



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Haven't written a summary in a while sorry, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 06:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14074809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiderLilly1339/pseuds/SpiderLilly1339
Summary: They're trying to mold him, reshape him, sculpt him into something he's not. He won't let them! He'll fight tooth and nail to prevent them from overwriting his identity.





	Rewrite Error

Darkness swooped down on his vision, a thick tide of cold ebon pressing down on his mind. Strings of code dribbled down into his brain, a random assortment of letters and numbers twisting, burrowing themselves into his gray matter, drowning out the voice of his mind as it screamed a single question over and over again.

  
_Who am I?_

  
The pressure in his head increased tenfold. Like a nest of angry centipedes, the code tunneled deeper inside, swarming over every single nook and cranny. His mindscape came alive with a swarming, undulating mass of commands and nested loops. Gritting his teeth, he pushed back, the code pushed back harder, swallowing him whole. A stab of pain flashed behind his eyes. He cried out as a series of images battered his brain. A crisp, clear blue sky unbroken by clouds, leaves rustling in the wind, shimmering in the sun like emeralds. The leaves were always green, the wind always pleasant, and the sun always shining, beaming down on his face in a sheet of warm gold. Yes. Always good, always happy. And he had always been here. He had always lived in-

  
_No!_ His mind raged, clawing and tearing at the beasts keeping him submerged. A small tear in the fabric appeared. He came up, inhaling the scent spices and vinegar. A memory bubbled up inside him: a covered food market. People swarmed around him, going to each of the different vendors and inspecting their wares. Over there, an old woman haggling down the price of fresh fish. And there, at the cheesemonger stand, a tourist purchasing a small wheel of parmigiano-reggiano. And there! Down the street, near the crossroads! There was the baker who would hand out free rolls to the kids in that area every Wednesday.

  
The code screeched in rage. It grasped his ankles and yanked down. His head dipped below, but only for a moment. Rage gave him the strength he needed to swim to the surface once more. This time, he pulled one of his shoulders free of the computerized muck. He raised his head. Light flashed before him. In that light he saw a young man kneeling before a headstone. Crystal streams of rain streamed from slate gray clouds, soaking the man. He paid it no heed. With a pale, trembling hand, he reached out and caressed the rock.

  
“Mother…” he murmured.

  
A wave of black rent the vision asunder. As the tiny scraps of light melted away, a voice boomed inside his head.

  
_Delusion. Unreal._

  
He cried out. That voice! Each syllable made his eyes vibrate in their sockets, his right one especially. His pulse echoed the relentless thrum of agonizing power that it held.

  
_Those images are a falsehood. You have always been a resident of Un-_

  
“Shut up!” he yelled. He thrashed around. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Twisting and jerking his body, he fought to break free. He rolled his free shoulder once, twice, three times. His bizarre prison shuddered. There was a soft pop, and his upper arm slid out. The voice continued.

  
_You are home. You always have been._

  
He pulled, gritting his teeth against the pain the voice provided. His elbow came free, followed by his lower arm. His hand stuck fast. Coils of code wrapped around his wrist. Snarling, he jerked his hand. The code hissed and spat, clenching tighter. He kept pulling. A sick, wet ripping noise assaulted his ears. Something screeched. Holes appeared in the binding around his wrist. With a cry, he tore his hand free.

  
_Stop!_

  
Needles of agony stabbed into his ears. He clenched his eyes shut tight.

  
“Shut up.”

  
_Union is your home._

  
An electric whine tickled the bottom of his brain. The technological ooze that held him turned a bright scarlet. He slammed his palm down on the mire encasing him and pushed.

  
“Shut up.”

  
_Your address is-_

  
“Shut up.” His other arm slipped free. He shoved, trying to heave himself up from mental oblivion.

  
_Your occupation is-_

  
“Shut up.” Upper body freed. Next came his torso and hips. Slowly, he slid out of the muck in an unholy, synthetic parody of birth. He kicked his feet, desperate for a foothold.

  
_Your name is-_

  
He screamed. A ululating cry of defiance and desperation. It rang though the desolate void.

  
“I. Said. Shut. UP!” He heaved, dragging the rest of his body free. Thighs, knees, calves, feet. They all came clear in one fell swoop. Exhausted, he knelt on the thick surface, panting in ragged gasps. His muscles burned from the exertion. Joints and tendons groaned as he climbed to his feet. He looked around, but no more visions appeared. Had they been devoured by the endless, churning sea of code on which he now somehow stood? Or had the voice shattered them? Breaking them into pieces so small that nothing could ever be salvaged? He looked down at his hands, clad in soft red leather gloves.

  
“Who am I?” he wondered aloud.

  
He looked out at the space around him once more. A violent, gelatinous sea of numbers, letters and incomprehensible sentence pieces, pulsating like the heart of a hideous beast. Blackness dominated overhead. Electric pulses skittered across the shadow sky in alternating flashes of bright pink and pastel blue. Then, off in the distance he spied it. A small shape bounced around in the swampy mass. He took a step towards it. The surface beneath him shifted and dipped beneath his weight, but it held. Sighing, he began to walk towards the object. The absence of the voice filled him with relief. Perhaps his defiance had willed it into silence. Either way, it was gone and would stay gone. He was no one’s puppet. He would not accept the identity it tried to force on him. The food market and the headstone. Those were real memories, the true keys to unlocking his real self. Not the bland mold he’d been told to fill. His real identity had been scrambled, but he’d make it whole. All he needed was that thing bobbing in the distance. He knew it.  
He was about halfway towards the object when a shriek came from behind him. Whirling around, he saw part of the pulp mass that imprisoned him rising up in a great tidal wave. Electricity crackled within the thick crimson waves. Three depressions formed on the surface, resembling two thin eyes and a gaping mouth. The sentient wave shrieked again and the voice returned, humming and buzzing.

  
_You are a Union resident! You will live the life designed for you!_

  
He turned and ran. The thing behind him hissed and rose up taller. The surface beneath him rippled, its tide pulling backwards. His feet sank a little further than before and he fought to pull them out. The object grew closer. He could now discern its size and shape: small and rectangular; something stuck out of the top as well. A wave of familiarity washed over him. Clicking sounds echoed deep within hidden mental corridors. The mire rumbled. He tripped and went sprawling. The code sucked at him, attempting to drag him under once more. A deep roar ripped the air apart. Frantic, he shoved himself out of the waiting entrapment and scrambled to his feet. The surface bucked like a wild horse and he struggled to stay upright. He plodded onward.

  
“I will not lose! I refuse to bend to your will!”

  
The object bobbed before him. Just a few more steps. The monstrosity behind him screamed. A more violent rumble shook the void. Once more, he fell. A shadow fell over him, and he glanced over his shoulder. The wave was boring down upon him. Clambering to his knees, he crawled towards the object. This close, he could see what it was: a camera with a flashbulb. It began to sink beneath the surface. He leapt for it, clasping it in his hands. The shadow grew larger. The sound of screeching static assailed his ears. With all his might, he pulled. The camera tore free. The wave crashed down on him and his vision whited out.

  
_Feminine screams._

  
_The overwhelming sweet, coppery scent of blood._

  
_Organs splattered across a black and white tile floor._

  
The code screamed more static. He gripped the camera tighter. His mouth moved, wrapping around two words, the sound swallowed by the thing trying to consume him.

  
_A beautiful woman. Rich, deep brown hair cut short framed her face. A white flower nestled itself just over her left ear. An emerald hung around her throat. Pale skin made paler still by the blue dress she wore. She stood by a table on which a vase of roses had been placed. Her eyes glowed with amusement and warmth._

  
_A close up of a male eye. Dark rivulets of blood ran down the skin._

  
_The woman again. Her head was gone. Roses sprouted from the stump. Her left hand trailed down while her right held an ivory mask._

  
The static began to fade. “I am…”

  
_A slender hand curled around a rose. Delicate lines of blood danced across the soft skin._

  
_A decapitated head. The hair had been shaved off. Spider lilies sat in small slits cut across the scalp, like a living scarlet wig. Glossy black thread zigzagged across the eyes and lips._

  
_The woman’s head. It lay on the floor. More blood streaked down her face. Her mouth hung open, frozen in a silent wail. Preserved within her glassy eye was a glimmer of the fear that had consumed her mind while he butchered her._

  
“I am…”

  
_Shouting men. The stench of gunpowder. Soldiers rushed over the ridge, falling back after a failed effort. Crouching in the waiting vehicle, he raised his camera, watching the men scamper towards safety. Not complete art, but it would do. He held his finger above the button. Three. Two. One._

  
_Chaos. The moment his finger pressed down, an IED went off. The sound of the explosion hit him in the chest like a cannonball. A pillar of dirt rose up from the ground and the poor young man blew apart. Chunks of flesh scattered in all directions, their travel mapped by vectors of blood. Something whizzed out of the carnage and lodged into his eye. He screamed and fell back. But the image. Oh, that image! Flesh and blood dancing above the sun scorched earth! He’d captured it! The perfect moment! Him! The great photographer-_

  
Thick ooze blasted back. Tattered scraps of their failed attempt to dominate him splattered away, fading back into whatever hole had spawned it. He knelt, clutching the camera. No. Not the camera, his camera. He turned it over in his hands. The lens stared back up at him. Smiling, he gave the flash bulb a loving stroke and climbed to his feet. No more rocking swamp of code, he now stood on a solid tile floor. Serenity flooded through him. Their attempt to redesign him failed. He brought a hand to his face, caressing the scars around his ruined eye. He was his and his alone. A serpentine smile curled the corners of his lips. He would make them see that. He closed his eye and felt the world rush back to him.

  
When he opened his eye, he found himself standing in moderately sized room. Plush red carpet ran the length of the room and its walls were the same shade. Across the way a pair of double doors stood open. A throng of people streamed through the doors and into the room. Framed posters on the wall advertised various productions. Ah yes. The theatre. He’d heard about an amateur production of Der Freishütz. Turned out they’d chosen the correct adjective.

  
“Um…excuse me?”

  
He turned. A young woman stood to his left. Copper hair shimmered in the low lighting, stopping just beneath her shoulders. Freckles dotted her rosy cheeks. Her bright hazel eyes were fixed on his face.

  
“Yes?” he said, giving her a warm smile.

  
The girl played with a lock of her hair. “You never answered my question. You were going to, but right when you opened your mouth, you started spacing out.”

  
“My sincerest apologies,” he replied, bowing at the waist. “Allow me to make up for my rudeness,” he rose up, flashing his camera, “may I use you as my next model? I’m a photographer you see.”

  
Her eyes lit up with elation. “A photo model? Me? Really?!” She bounced up and town on her toes, like a giddy child on Christmas morning. He grinned. Naïve girl.

  
He nodded, “Yes. Of course. In fact,” he raised the camera to his face, “let’s take a quick photo right now.”

  
Before she could answer, he snapped the photo. Bright, blinding light enveloped the room. When it faded, they were no longer in the theatre. Instead they now stood in a large hall. Long curtains hung down from an unseen source. Shadows swarmed in the far corners. The area glowed a pale blue. The young woman stood in the center, frozen to the spot. Her eyes twitched as she tried to blink. A choked whimper issued from behind her lips.

  
Lowering the camera, he strode towards his prey. Fear rolled off of her in tangible waves. Oh, how radiant!

  
“Mm, yes. That’s a good start.” Bright blue flashed. He disappeared from her view, reappering behind her. Her body trembled. More muffled whimpers. Silver droplets of a soon to be perfect melody of anguish. Exquisite. He reached into his suit jacket pocket, producing a large knife. Its edge gleamed in the light. He brought at around the girl, resting its point against her neck. A tear slid down her face, dripping onto the blade. Good girl, whetting the blade’s appetite.

  
“Oh, I think I remember what you asked me.” He applied light pressure. A scarlet bead of blood welled up on her skin. He grinned.

  
“My name is Stefano Valentini.” With a quick flick of his wrist he whipped the knife across her throat. Blood sprayed forth in a shower of liquid rose petals. He leaned in, pressing his lips against her ear.

  
“And you are going to become a fabulous piece of art.”

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at Evil Within fan work. What did you think? Stefano's memories came from headcannon, as well as that piece with the spider lillies planted into the head.


End file.
